


Over The Top

by cherry3point14



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Badly Written Smut, F/M, Fluff, SMUT RAINING DOWN FROM THE HEAVENS, Smut, Sweet, and then, it's fluffy, sugary, through no fault of it's own
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-10-01 00:04:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17233670
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherry3point14/pseuds/cherry3point14
Summary: Prompt: You and the boys finally get an actual break in the action, and there’s a carnival right where you are. (Prompted by my girl @divadinag on Tumblr)





	Over The Top

**Author's Note:**

> I mean my girl mentioned a slight fear of something carnival based when she sent me this prompt SO I FIXED THE BAD THING WITH SMUT. 
> 
> Y'all are welcome.

Sometimes Dean is predictable, not that it’s a bad thing. It can be comforting to know what he’ll do next. Like right now. His arm is snaking around your waist as you walk towards the Impala, then in a few seconds, he’ll use his grip on you as leverage to stop you sliding in the car _just_ yet. Instead, he’ll pull you into his body as he leans against his Baby and he’ll kiss you slow and deep. It’s how he finishes up a job. Once he knows the case is wrapped up he likes having this moment with you, not that you’ve ever complained. Dean makes you feel precious in a way you rarely do as a hunter. The gentle way his lips nip at yours and his fingers hold you like you’re made of glass. When it’s him doing it you don’t feel useless but special.  
  
The thing is, he doesn’t even do this for you, he does it for him. He holds you carefully and kisses you for as long as he can because he needs the reminder that you’re still here, with him. You get that. Even after all these years, more of often than not, the stuff you see is still hard to swallow. The monsters might be easy to kill but sometimes the death and the violence doesn’t always wipe clean from your mind like a dry erase board.  
  
So, even if he’s predictable, you let Dean have this. For you both. At this point, it’s the credits at the end of the story. The town isn’t safe until he’s holding you against the car. And then usually Sam appears from somewhere with that little throat-clearing cough. Dean rolls his eyes and lets’s you go, everyone gets in the car and you go home.  
  
Maybe you’re all a little predictable.  
  
But the routine is solid. End of the case. Dean kisses the girl, you, and then the three of you drive off into the sunset with the rumble of the Impala as your steed.  
  
That is the routine anyway until, Charleston.  
  
It’s May and it’s sticky in South Carolina. You’re hunting this vampire nest who all have these cloying southern drawls. Or at least, that’s what you overheard while you’d been tracking them. They have this farmhouse that looks completely normal on the outside. There’s one of those big porches that wrap around the house and it’s surrounded by these big, beautiful fields. If you didn’t know what was happening inside you might be envious of the building.  
  
You go in after breakfast. There’s nothing like killing vamps after pancakes.  
  
It’s a big nest and you have to drag all of their asses, and heads, outside to burn them on account of the entire house being made of wood, and the air is too dry. By the time the job is done each of you is dusty, sweaty and tired.  
  
There’ll be arguments at the motel for the shower and you’re prepared for that. In fact, that’s what you’re thinking about as you drive back into town. All the reasons you should get first dibs, or you could forgo the argument and run straight in there without asking. It’s underhanded yes but goddamn did you want a shower.  
  
Then you see it. It definitely wasn’t there this morning when you drove past this park? It’s hard to tell what this plot of land was since the empty area has been completely transformed. It’s still afternoon so the neon lights aren’t flashing yet but there is no mistaking this place for what it is. The food carts and big rides that seem impossible for being portable. The colors of everything are too bright for the daytime. All the booths are painted with the kind of fluorescent paint that glows in darkness but just looks crazy in the day. The whole sight is tantalizing to the eight-year-old buried deep inside that loves trying to beat carnival games.  
  
“I know what we’re doing tonight.” You say with a hand pressed against the glass. You’re expecting a fight but both of them glance at the setup, shrug and agree. It’s the easiest you’ve ever convinced them to do anything so clearly something is up, either that or all the fight has been knocked out of them by vampires.  
  
You don't question their easy compliance, you really want some cotton candy.

* * *

From the moment you roll up with a pocket full of cash and sandwiched between two Winchesters the whole evening takes on a magical like quality. There’s music now. Nostalgic tunes that fairgrounds have been using since the beginning of time and sound like they’re still played on accordions. The lights hum and people call out from booths to try and part you with your cash. It’s kind of nice to be on the other side of the hustle, although that doesn’t mean you’re suddenly an idiot.  
  
You’d always loved fairs when you were a kid. You had great hand-eye coordination for one thing and, in the words of Styx, too much time on your hands. You’d spend hours watching other people fail just to figure out the games. And the carnies didn’t exactly hate your method. Other people seeing you win made them think they had a shot.  
  
It has been years now though. The first time you try to knock over the milk bottles your aim is off, go figure since you’re about a foot taller now. By the third try you work out the kinks but by then you might as well have bought the small stuffed toy that’s thrust into your hands.  
  
Sam is convinced, utterly convinced beyond all doubt, that he can do the ladder thing. He swears it’s not even that far to climb for someone as tall as him. While normally you wouldn't disagree that his height is an advantage it appears he’s completely forgotten that he’s all limbs, which are exactly what knocks him off balance. The first time he falls off you and Dean laugh as he dusts himself off. He's trying to be calm and collected but it’s easy to see the frustration lurking under his schooled expression. He wants to win and he’s about to illustrate that famous Winchester stubbornness to do it. It’s kind of wonderful any time you get to see Sam get irrationally crazy over something because he doesn’t do it all that often, you just didn’t figure it would be the freaking ladder game at the carnival that set him off.  
  
Eight attempts later and you take it all back. Sam was never a rational man, he just hid the crazy way down deep.  
  
Dean has to tell him the game is rigged and drag him away. Both of you have to make sure that he doesn’t see the five foot nothing teenage girl who manages it half an hour later.  
  
The longer the evening goes on the more you all regress just a little bit. It’s been a while since any of you were truly carefree and god knows that if a werewolf stormed in right now you’d all be ready to go. But you all seem to lighten considerably as the evening wears on. Or maybe it’s the sugar and fried food.  
  
Sam shares his pickle chips with you while Dean eats his body weight in cotton candy. Then his eyes light up when he sees a stand selling deep fried Oreos. The very idea disgusts you but it’s not like you can just carry on living without trying one.

* * *

“No, I’m good. You two go, I’ll stay here and protect the funnel cake.”  
  
For a beat you think you’ve convinced him, his face seems to harden like he agrees that the funnel cake needs protecting. You’re not that lucky though.  
  
“Come on,” the sugar in his veins forcing out a childlike whine. He knows you’re scared and why you’re scared. He knows but for some reason he’s still pushing. “I’ll protect you. Hold your hand and everything. For me?” Dean may not have Sam’s puppy dog eyes but he’s still damn convincing. There’s this way that his bottom lip juts out in a pout that he reserves for you. Then he takes your hand, a slight swing between you both, his fingers engulf yours and the bastard knows it makes you feel safe because he knows all your secrets.  
  
He must see your face twitch or flinch or something. You must have a tell since he has to wipe away his pout and bite his bottom lip. It means he’s hiding a grin because he’s already won.  
  
“It’ll be fine.” He promises earnestly.  
  
“I’ll remember this next time I want you to get on a plane.”  
  
His face pales before you’ve finished saying the word. “‘S not a fair comparison, people die on planes.”  
  
“People die on Ferris wheels Dean _and_ people die from shorter heights than that!” You point your arm to the top of the wheel with a flustered puff of air.  
  
Your voice must be getting as loud as it his high because he wraps you up, fingers drawing soothing lines up and down your back, “good thing I’m not letting you go.”  
  
Your arm that’s still in the air, panicked, melts and falls over his shoulder. God, is it that easy for him to ease the tense knot in your gut?  
  
Well, no. It’s still there. He’s a good distraction though.  
  
“Why do you want me to ride so bad?”  
  
His eyebrows waggle playfully, “it’s a two-person ride.”  
  
“So…?”  
  
Dean takes a step back from you and turns to clap Sam on the shoulder, “too bad Sammy guess you’re on your own.”  
  
It doesn’t seem that dastardly until it’s the front of the line and Dean nudges Sam forward first. Sam slides into the seat and the guy running the death trap takes one look before bellowing, “LONE RIDER. ANY OTHER LONE RIDERS?”  
  
Dean has to hold his sides for the laugh, no, cackle that comes out of him. It’s _just_ amusing enough, watching him happily execute his plan that for all of two minutes you forget that the next empty car is for you.

* * *

The torture device lurches into motion when you sit down before stopping abruptly a minute later. There’s a carriage between you and Sam, and his single rider friend who you suspect wasn’t a single rider before she saw him. It makes you and Dean a little more alone amongst strangers. Tucked up together in your cold metal coffin. The moment it moves again, taking the solid ground from under you, your hands search for something and find Dean.  
  
You’d watched this rickety looking thing before you’d got on. You know it’ll lurch a few more times as it loads more people. Then you’ll go all the way around. Then more lurching as others get off and more get on. Then more horrific heights. It’ll be about twenty minutes until you’re allowed off this stupid thing.  
  
Assuming you haven’t died by that point. It’s a pretty big assumption.  
  
You realize how ridiculous it is to be clinging to Dean like this. Your hands wrapped tightly around his bicep while you try to steady your breathing. You’re barely half way up but you’re _all_ the way stressed out. The wheel stops again and you rock back and forth enough to make your stomach jump into your throat. And that’s without looking down.  
  
Fucking hell, the last thing you’ll ever do is look down.  
  
“It’s ok, I’ve got you, baby. We’re just gonna get cozy and enjoy the sights.” He’s got a hand on top of yours, though you don’t know if it’s meant to be a comfort or if he’s trying to pry you off of him. Your grip is probably making his arm numb. And Dean needs his arm maybe. There’s also a note of guilt in his voice like maybe he’s worked out how bad an idea this was.  
  
“The only sight I’ll enjoy is my feet touching solid ground again!”  
  
He laughs under his breath but mostly keeps his amusement at your dramatics under control. He does dislodge your grip but only so he can wrap his arm around you, which leaves you to wrap yourself around his middle. He doesn’t understand. You need to be holding something. You need to ground yourself. And touching the metal bar will only serve to remind you of where you are.  
  
The screech of metal, that nobody else seems concerned with, sounds out as it starts moving again. There’s no stop-start this time. Slowly you’re making your way up and over the top.  
  
You don’t just close your eyes, you squeeze them shut and curl closer into him. It’s not just the height of the thing, although that’s a big part of the bubbling anxiety inside, it’s the motion, the noises, the fact that the only thing between you and untimely death is a lightweight bar across your lap.  
  
The jacket you’re wearing is light enough to keep you comfortable this warm, spring evening but even so the spot on your shoulder where he’s gently rubbing his hand back and forth feels warmer than the rest of you. It’s a small comfort but it’s something for your panicked mind to concentrate on as you go over the very top. His touch cuts through the crazy and you hang onto like a life raft. You even manage to let out a puff of air instead of holding your breath, which you had been doing up until then.  
  
He notices that your chest isn’t heaving quite so much even if you’re still holding on for dear life. Dean smiles to himself and presses his lips to the top of your head. He squeezes you a little tighter and whispers his praise, “you’re doing so good baby. So proud of you.”  
  
It’s stupid. You’ve done braver things, more dangerous things, somewhere you’re aware of the absurdity of this fear even if you can’t make it go away. But Dean says he’s proud of you and a small smile tugs at your lips. You even dare to loosen the tight clench of your eyes until they’re barely closed, just about squinting. The lights of the other fairground rides and booths are hazy but you can just about make them out.  
  
The first turn is almost complete now and your body incorrectly assumes that it’s over. The carriage you’re in sways as it backs in the loading area and then you gasp when you keep going. You knew it was coming, the continuation of this horror, yet you’re still surprised.  
  
This time it’s a full rotation without a stop. Everything is agonizingly slow, your stomach flip-flops over the top again. When you manage to open your eyes another slither you see the floor disappear again as you start making your way up for the third time. Then, with the carriage in front of you sitting at the highest point, everything stops. The sudden loss of movement makes the carriage sway in the air and a voice from below confirms your worst fears.  
  
“Sorry folks happens all the time. We’ll have you moving again in a few. Hold tight.”  
  
“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” You groan backtracking into clamped eyes and holding Dean tightly.  
  
“Hey, hey, hey,” he uses his hand that’s not wrapped around your body to try and lift your face to him, though you resist. “Look at me.”  
  
You sit up straighter, still holding him but not hiding in his chest, and your eyes stay closed as you angle your head in his direction.  
  
He takes it from there. His hand cups your cheek and before you can comprehend his touch his lips are on yours. The kiss starts soft and slow, building with each second until his tongue in your mouth is all there is. Your eyes are still closed but relaxed now, not held tightly in fear. You sigh into his mouth and when he pulls away to give you air your eyelids flutter open with a dopey smile on your face.  
  
“There she is,” he jokes with a grin.  
  
It doesn’t take long before the spell is broken and you remember where you are. Dean squeezes you, reassuringly, “I got you, ok? We’re not moving. I’ve got you, sweetheart.”  
  
You shakily nod your head, because Dean isn’t going to let anything happen to you even if what comes out of your mouth contradicts your faith in him, “I’ve literally had nightmares where this is how I die.”  
  
"Not by a monster?”  
  
“No. I’ve always known this is how I’m going out. It’s why monsters don’t scare me.”  
  
You’re being dramatic as you glance around nervously. Not looking down, obviously, just staring at the carriage in front. When your eyes go back to his face he’s biting his lip to suppress a laugh. “On a Ferris wheel?”  
  
Your jaw tenses, unamused, “maybe. Something high. I swear you and me are taking a nice long plane journey soon, then we’ll see what’s funny.”  
  
Dean dips his head, pressing a kiss to your jaw, then another just behind your ear. You don’t want to give in because this is serious but you can feel the stiffness in your muscles melt away into nothing.  
  
“Want me to help you relax, you know, in case this _is_ the end?” He asks with this perfect mix of playful seriousness that you appreciate.  
  
“Here? On a death trap surrounded by people?” Already your voice is heavy with anticipation because you’ve already given in.  
  
You haven’t called it a death trap out loud yet and he chuckles even while the pads of his fingers dance over your neck. “Mmmm hmm,” he whispers close to your ear, “right here. No one can see us.” He doesn’t say 'this high up' because he knows it’ll trigger you, even if that’s what he means. “You’ve just got to be quiet. You can do that for me right, baby girl? You can be quiet?”  
  
You’re not so helpless, even at this height, that you can’t be a little playful with him, “are you sure you can get the job done here? I'm not so sure.”  
  
Calling into question his ability to get you off has gotten you into some sticky situations in the past. His reaction is always the same. He knows the challenge is bullshit but he still _has_ to prove you wrong. On this Ferris wheel of all places is no different.  
  
He growls in your ear, it’s low and quiet but fills your head completely, “you asked for it.” The roughness of his voice, laced with a promise, is enough to start the heat building between your legs.  
  
This is ridiculous. Fear still clings to the roof of your mouth, the air it too light up here, death too imminent. And here you are squeezing your thighs together because Dean is teasing you, and at the same time not doing anything really, not yet. His fingers are at the nape of your neck, his lips on the shell of your ear. For crying out loud he still has his other arm wrapped around your shoulders to comfort you. It’s all so innocent and yet, whether it’s the height you’re at or the public place, it’s not.  
  
He grins against your skin when he hears the scratch of denim where you’re rubbing your thighs against each other. It’s doing nothing for you except exacerbating your need for something. Anything.  
  
“Dean,” you whine, much like he had to get you on this goddamn ride in the first place. You know he loves hearing his name tumble from your lips when you’re all desperate like this.  
  
He growls against your skin, his teeth barely grazing your pulse point before he raises his head to kiss you again. It’s deep and heavy and his tongue is so distracting that it takes your body a moment to catch up when his hand slips under your jacket, cupping your breast through your shirt. Even with thick cotton and your bra in the way your nipple still pebbles under his touch. You arch your back as much as you can, pushing your chest into his hand. Finally pulling your mouth away from his to let out a moan.  
  
As quickly as his thumb had been tracing teasing patterns over your nipple it’s gone. His hand moves to cover your mouth instantly. How quickly you’ve forgotten where you are or how little time you have remaining on this earth. It’s all background noise when you’re staring into Dean’s face. It’s not just the lights from the fair below that twinkle in his eyes, it’s mischievousness even while his voice lowers considerably, “that’s not what I said is it? You’ve gotta be quiet, baby.” His attempt at scolding is a failure since you know he loves pulling those noises from you. But you still nod under his palm, biting your lip as he pulls it away.  
  
You lean up to press small butterfly kisses to his jaw, feeling his scruff under your lips, “sorry,” you mummer against him, “I’ll be good, I wanna die happy.”  
  
He nudges you back. His mouth reattaching to that spot where your neck meets your chest. He sucks a mark into your skin, just below your open collar, his tongue soothing your skin between bites of his teeth. Over and over until you’re keening, silently obviously. The mark you know he’s leaving there, the sensation of him claiming you before you meet your maker, it’s all very sinful. It quells the worry that eats away at you, while the fear may not be gone completely you can hardly hear it over the way Dean plays your body like a cheap guitar.  
  
He moves his lips to your ear so you can _feel_ every word, “Not gonna let you die sweetheart, but am gonna make you happy.”  
  
You’d smile, make some quip at him, it’s just his fingers pop the top button of your jeans. And then he pulls the zip down slowly enough that the metal teeth send electrifying jolts through you as they unclasp, one by one. He’s a goddamn tease is what he is, even if he’s sweet and careful pressing his forehead to yours. Nipping at your lips as his cold hand slides down the front of your jeans.  
  
This is not ideal. Not just the height, the carnival below or the people in other carriages around you. You’re boxed in, trapped at this one angle with no room to bend or maneuver into a more comfortable position. It’s almost like these rides weren’t made for public exhibitionism.  
  
It doesn’t matter to him though. Dean, for all your teasing, is good at what he does, he’s especially skilled at tight spaces and unusual circumstances. You honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he’s actually gone further than this on top of Ferris wheel before.  
  
That’s a conversation for another day.  
  
Like always he starts slow, drawing incoherent shapes over the cotton of your underwear. He does it a minute longer than he usually would, making sure his hand is warm when he dips inside the black material. “Already wet for me, baby? I thought you said this was gonna be harder up here?”  
  
The groan that comes out of you could be anything to the people in the next car. It could be frustration or annoyance, or it could be because your fucking boyfriend has his hand down your pants and is as cocky as ever while he does it. “You’re a dick you know that?”  
  
“I’m your dick,” he teases, a smile on his lips. Not that you see the smile but rather feel it with his lips on yours. “And anyway you like me, especially when I do this.”  
  
You’re not stupid enough to ask what he’s talking about and he doesn’t leave enough time to wonder. His middle finger sweeps through your folds making you shiver. Your face is cold up here, chilly cheeks and a pink nose, but the space between your thighs is warm. He slowly circles your clit, varying his pace until your gasps are breathless and your knees are weak.  
  
The coil in your stomach is tightening already, the tension waiting to break. Not that he’s going too fast. He’s not. He’s having too much fun watching you squirm every time he traces around your bundle of nerves, not quite touching it. He’s practically nose to nose with you, his eyes darting over your face to take in every silent beg, every sharp intake of breath and every time your eyes slip backward in your head.  
  
“Dean. Please.” It’s a hushed whisper, barely any louder than the wind.  
  
He hears it. He responds with deft movements over your clit that would make you pant and moan if you were allowed to make those noises. Instead, you settle for shallow, shaky breaths that feel out of your control.  
  
“Not yet baby, hold on for me.”  
  
You’re not sure if he means the orgasm that’s already written in stone or the ride that still isn’t moving. You choose neither and instead hook your hands around his neck like it’s him, not the metal bar, that keeps you from death. Or maybe he’ll be the death of you. It’s getting so hard to keep track.  
  
You’re still at the top of a Ferris wheel. The rides and games continue beneath you. If the people in front turned around they would very clearly see Dean’s hands down your pants and unmistakable pleasure splashed across your face. It’s just you’re in this bubble with Dean. Your only focus is on what his hands are doing to you. And his hands are moving again.  
  
Another kiss as he slides a thick, digit inside you. Just the one at first. Somehow your jeans are not a hindrance and he’s working you up as easily as he would spread out on your bed. The palm of his hand is grinding against your clit as he adds a second finger. He’s pumping slowly, stretching you perfectly and holy fuck is it good. And you moan, you can’t help it. The sound is wanton and desperate and completely involuntary, “oh fuck.”  
  
Dean is not cruel enough to stop again when you’re so close. Instead, he ducks his head and kisses you, his tongue swipes over your lips and he swallows the moans that escape your throat. It seems like a perfect cover, that is until he bites your lip for making the noise in the first place.  
  
His fingers curl inside of you, dragging against your sensitive inner wall. You bite your own lip this time. Your eyes close and you know it’s coming, or you will be. Soon, very soon. Everything in you is tight now and your entire being is focussed on chasing the oncoming pleasure. Your body might be on fire for the heat that has spread from your core to every nerve ending.  
  
Suddenly there’s a lurch that forces your eyes open. Panic and fear bleeding into the edge of your desire.  
  
The ride starts moving again, albeit slowly churning back to life. Dean’s voice is so much deeper now as he keeps you steady, “come on sweetheart. Stay with me. I’ve got you, just let go.”  
  
His voice is enough to keep you distracted as he switches the palm of his hand for his thumb against your clit. Concentrated pressure and curled fingers send your hurtling over the edge. The tension snaps and a wave of pleasure courses through you, rattling every bone in your body. The heat that consumed you is replaced by the chill in the air as you let go.  
  
You have to bury your face in his shoulder now because there's no way that some noise isn’t coming out of you. You pant and moan into the crook of his neck. Muffled noises that sound like something akin to his name although it’s hard to tell over the creaking metal and the odd whoop from other people excited to be moving again.  
  
It’s a minute or two before he stills his hand completely. Another thirty seconds before he slowly pulls himself from your underwear. You’re boneless and content, watching with hooded eyes as he sucks the taste of you from his fingers.  
  
Ferris wheel be fucking damned. It's certainly the best ride you've been on in a while. Even better for surviving it.  
  
The wheel stops a few times before you’re in the loading bay again but this time the metal bar raises and you're free. You look about as presentable as when you got on, your jeans are buttoned again and nothing seems out of place. The wetness between your legs is your own dirty little secret and you could keep it that way if you wanted. Continue your evening and nobody would ever know.  
  
It’s not how this plays out though. What actually happens is you dragging Dean by his hand away from the ride with nothing but a quick explanation for Sam, “we’ve gotta go, Sam, something came up.”  
  
If anyone were to look at the bulge in Dean's pants they'd know it's not a lie.


End file.
